


Steve Rogers is a Damned Sex Fiend

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Demons, Horny Teenagers, Incubus Steve Rogers, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Wet Dream, not as much sex as one would expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like the sun has come out from behind a cloud, except instead of warm, afternoon light, everything (just for a moment) is bathed red. Just in the alleyway, mind you. Just in this one alleyway in Brooklyn, out of nowhere, it’s like Satan himself has looked up and said, ‘You know what, we could do with a change in decor.’ </p><p>And then it’s gone again, just as sudden. But along with that flash of light comes the thing that Bucky will never forget. Rogers shouts in pain, probably. Many people do, when they get kicked in the gut. Only, it doesn’t sound like a shout. It sounds like an inhuman screech and it reverberates through Bucky right to his bones, making his ears pop and his stomach churn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1927

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this has been floating around on my tumblr for a while, but there's new bits and pieces that I'm adding in, trying to form it into something actually resembling a story. Haha good luck with that.

Sure, Bucky knows Steve Rogers. Knows of him, at least. They’re in a class together, but it’s a class of forty-six people so Bucky can’t be blamed if he can’t say he’s ever really talked to the kid that much. Doesn’t do you much good to talk to Rogers, not unless you’re out to call him names or turn him upside-down to let the few meager bits of coin he might have on him clatter to the ground outta the pockets of his ill-fitting school shorts.

So when Bucky walks past the alley out the back of the school building one day to see Rogers surrounded by three kids with their sleeves rolled up and mean looks on their mugs, he nearly just keeps on strolling. Thinks to himself, Rogers gets picked on plenty already and it ain’t gone too far yet, he’ll be alright. Thinks to himself, there’s plenty of folks on their way past here, someone else will step in, it don’t gotta be me. Thinks to himself, you don’t know what the situation is, Barnes, maybe Rogers really deserves it, or maybe he’s got it handled.

But when he tries to keep walking, something stops him. It’s not his conscience, not this time. No, it’s what he sees out of the corner of his eye as he goes by, and the sound.

The sound.

What he sees is this: Steve Rogers has been pushed onto the ground and he’s lying on his side with his hands over his face to protect himself. One of the boys is lifting his leg up to give him a sharp one to the stomach. It collides, straight into Rogers’ gut like a hammer hitting a gong.

Here is what you might expect to see and hear after that: Rogers gasping in pain; curling himself up on the ground to protect himself; the boys going in for more, laughing maybe. That’s not what happens.

What Bucky sees and hears instead, is this: It’s like the sun has come out from behind a cloud, except instead of warm, afternoon light, everything (just for a moment) is bathed red. Just in the alleyway, mind you. Just in this one alleyway in Brooklyn, out of nowhere, it’s like Satan himself has looked up and said, ‘You know what, we could do with a change in decor.’ And then it’s gone again, just as sudden. But along with that flash of light comes the thing that Bucky will never forget. Rogers shouts in pain, probably. Many people do, when they get kicked in the gut. Only, it doesn’t sound like a shout. It sounds like an inhuman screech and it reverberates through Bucky right to his bones, making his ears pop and his stomach churn.

Almost unbidden, he turns and runs into the alleyway, where the other kids are now clutching their ears and hunched over. One of them recovers as the sound fades, takes one look at Rogers, lying on the ground, and turns tail to run. Another one looks at him and crosses himself like his mama raised him to do. The third looks down at him and spits on the ground and says, ‘We gotta kill him.’

Which is taking things a bit too far, Bucky thinks (although admittedly, at this point he hasn’t gotten a good look at Rogers, his view of the kid mostly obscured by the other boys’ legs), so he grabs the boy by the collar, swings him around and says: ‘Hey, you leave him alone, you hear me?’

And he punches the boy in the face.

He earns a punch in his own gut in return, and he sees the other boy, the god fearin’ one, give Rogers another kick, this time to his partially covered mug. But given a few moments, Bucky chases them both off at just about the time Steve is pushing himself up off the ground and spitting blood onto the filthy concrete.

Bucky drops down onto his knees beside him and helps him sit up, and that’s when he gets a proper look at Rogers – and he can kinda see why the other guy felt the need to ward off the devil. Rogers looks up at Bucky and snarls at him, pulling his bony elbow out of his grip and snapping, ‘I’m fine,’ but Bucky barely hears the words. He’s looking at Steve’s mouth as he says them, and the way his teeth are just two jagged rows of sharp, pointed fangs, top and bottom, like a piranha. More than that, coming out from just above Rogers’ ears are two little black horns, twisted and forked — jagged like miniature antlers – angled back towards the crown of his head.

Bucky let out a low whistle. Rogers lifts his hand up to his nose to try and stop the flow of blood. It leaks through his fingers and drips onto the ground, so Bucky fishes around into his pocket for a handkerchief and holds it out to him.

'I god id,' Rogers says nasally, pushing away Bucky's hand and glaring at him. His eyes are normal, at least. Still their clear, sharp blue; a bit pissed off, but whatever. 'Leabe me alone, I'b fine.'

'Well, that's bull,' Bucky replies, and shoves the hanky in his face. 'Just, just take it, christ.'

'I ain't Christ,' Rogers replies, but finally accepts the cloth and presses it to his nose, stemming the tide of blood.

Bucky just snorts. ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ he observes, and sits back on the ground to lean back on his hand.

Rogers just narrows his eyes at him. ‘You oughta be scared of me, Barnes,’ he says, tone accusing. ‘What ‘cha doing just sitting there?’

He doesn’t quite have an answer for that, so Bucky just shrugs. For one thing, even with sharp little teeth and horns, Rogers is still a scrawny, tiny little scrapper with a broken nose, and he isn’t doing anything to hurt Bucky, not right now. For another, well… Steve Rogers might have the devil in him, but hey. Bucky stole a can of soda last week on his way home and drank the whole thing himself, so no one is perfect.

'You should get some ice on that,' he tells Steve, who sighs and nods, and then scrunches up his eyes real tight shut. As Bucky watches, the horns and the teeth disappear like mirages, and he's back to looking like regular old Rogers again. Normal teeth, normal head. Except Bucky knows he ain't – or, rather, he never has been.

'You can't tell no one, Barnes,’ Steve says, deadly serious, and Bucky nods. ‘I mean it.’

'Of 'course, pal.' Bucky gets to his feet and reaches down to help Steve up off the ground. He's still hunched over a little bit in pain, but his nose seems to be bleeding a little less, and hey, Bucky's pretty sure the devil can take it. 'Come home with me, yeah? I got some stuff in the freezer that'll help.'

Steve nods, picks up his black leather lunchbox, and follows him out into the street. Someone calls out to Bucky, telling him to leave Rogers the hell alone and come join the game of baseball they got going, but Bucky just ignores them.

The next day, the three boys from the alley look at Steve, and their faces drain of color; but they all must’ve convinced themselves their minds were playing tricks, because they say nothing. Bucky just sits next to Steve in class, knows what he saw, and copies his answers off Steve’s whenever he can.


	2. October 1928

In the dark, Bucky can feel a chill run up his spine as the creature – the _monster_ – skulks up the stairs. The shadows are engulfing, all consuming, and terror fills him. Apprehension coils in his gut, alarm and adrenaline making his hands shake. He clenches his fists on his thighs, sucks in a sharp breath, and tries to stay quiet, frozen in his seat.

Steve elbows him in the ribcage. ‘You want the rest of my soda?’ he whispers.

Bucky tears his eyes away from the screen at the front of the cinema and glances at his friend, who is holding out the drink pointedly. He’s grinning, teeth flashing in the low light.

On the screen, Nosferatu creeps through the shadows, movements stiff and jerky. Inhuman. Terrifying.

‘What is it?’ Bucky hisses back, embarrassed when his voice tremors and Steve only smiles wider.

‘Root beer,’ he replies. ‘You scared, Buck?’

Bucky scoffs. 'No.'

Someone hushes then from the row behind. Pressing his lips together, Bucky takes the drink from Steve and takes a long sip, turning his attention back to the screen.

'Sorry,' Steve whispers to the person sitting in the other row. He shuffles closer to Bucky a little bit, tapping him lightly on the forearm. Bucky glances at him from the corner of his eyes, questioningly.

Steve bares his teeth, pointed little fangs, and lifts his hands up in the gloom to look like the vampire on screen. If the vampire on screen was eleven years old and had a glaring zit on the tip of his nose and a floppy fringe. He snarls silently, and his eyes crinkle up in amusement when Bucky just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the movie.

Bucky jumps in his seat and lets out an undignified squeak as he lets himself get engrossed in the film again. Beside him, Steve (the little shit) bends over in his seat, cackling in stifled laughter. 

Later, they're walking out of the theatre, leaving with the chattering crowd. The streets are busy with people celebrating Halloween; jack-o-lanterns pepper the streets like amber lanterns and children pass in masks that aren't half as terrifying as Steve's real face. People are shrieking and laughing in the distance, and a few feet away a couple of guys are sneaking up on a pair of pretty dames in an attempt to scare them into bed, probably. 

Bucky buries his hands in his jacket pockets, and tries not to meet Steve's eyes. He's still a bit jumpy from the movie, and Steve can't stop grinning in amusement at the fact. A couple of times he falls out of step with Bucky and slips into the crowd, only to jump out at him a moment later just to see Bucky jerk in surprise. 

'It was _scary_ ,' he snaps defensively, the third time Steve tries it. 'It was _meant to be_. If anyone is having the wrong reaction it's you.'

'Well, yeah, I guess it was kinda spooky,' Steve says, still smiling ear to ear. 'But c'mon Buck.'

'Your ma is expectin' us home by nine,' Bucky interrupts, wishing Steve would stop teasing him. 'We better hurry.'

'Aw, but Halloween is the one night I can let my hair down.'

'Don't you dare,' Bucky says quickly, but it's too late. He glances at Steve, and his friend has already turned the collars of his jacket up and let his teeth show, sharp and fierce. He moves slowly, jerkily, skulking beside Bucky like a shadow, and Bucky (despite himself) has to suppress a shiver. 'Quit it, Rogers.'

'Quit what, Mina?' Steve says in the spookiest voice he can manage, which ain't all that spooky at all. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. 'Okay, first, Mina is from Dracula. Second, if anything, I'm Harker.'

'Are you sure 'bout that?'

'Pretty sure, yeah.'

Steve drops the act, bumping his shoulder against Bucky's, and wraps his hands in the armpits of his jacket to stay warm. But he keeps the teeth out. 'You ain't scared of me, are ya?'

Bucky's laugh is loud and brash and genuine. As if he could ever be scared of Steve. 'No, pal.'

'Well, I'm _real_ , ain't I? Unlike that guy in the movie.'

Throwing his arm around Steve's shoulder, Bucky pulls him close. 'Things don't gotta be real to be scary, though. In fact, it helps if they're not.'

Steve snorts. 

'No, really,' Bucky insists. 'I've seen you pickin' your nose too many times for you to be scary. Ain't never seen Dracula pick his nose.'

'Yeah, but I could actually be under your bed any time you go to sleep. Remember that.'

'It's dusty under there. I'd catch you sneezing before I got into my pajamas.'

Steve scowls, but when Bucky elbows him he can't help but grin, looking down at the pavement. 

'Nice teeth, kid!' someone tells him. 

'Thanks, mister!' Steve calls back, smiling wider and something mischievous sneaking into his eyes. They sparkle when they meet Bucky's. 'You better run, Harker,' he whispers, and Bucky barely gets a head start before Steve is bolting after him down the street, fangs bared and laughing. 

'Watch it!' several people call as Bucky elbows his way through the crowd, dodging and ducking with Steve close on his heels; but it only takes a block or so before Steve is out of breath, and Bucky goes back to help him the last couple of streets home, coughing and wheezing, but still grinning like a devil.


	3. March 1932

Bucky has had dreams like this before, sure. Every boy has by the time they’re fifteen. The sorta dreams that mean he has to scramble out of bed before anyone else in the house wakes up and somehow scrub the stains outta his sheets. But they’ve never been this intense, this consuming, this real. And they sure as hell have never been about Steve.

It’s hard to tell where reality ends and the dream begins, and even while asleep he’s confused and disoriented. He knows he did go to bed with Steve lying next to him, yeah, but not for this. He just came over after school, hung around too late, and Mrs. Rogers said he could stay the night because it was too late to go wandering about town. How they went from lying side by side and back to back in bed, snickering and shoving each other with knees and toes for extra mattress space to this is beyond Bucky.

This being, skin on skin and rolling movements and Bucky panting into his friend’s mouth – which is lined with sharp, pointed teeth – and everything being so hot and sublime that Bucky just can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. It feels so completely real. More real than anything else, if he’s honest. Enough that it’s hard to work up the will to ever leave the dream. He would willingly never wake up again if it meant he could stay like this, consumed by pleasure and the slow drag of Steve’s body against his own and the way his teeth scrape on his lips, drawing blood.

In the dream, he tries to say something – to beg for mercy, either for release or, or – he opens his mouth and mumbles against Steve’s lips and fangs, but Steve just kisses him silent and says:

 _You’re mine_ , he growls, possessive and demonic, and also, grumbling and tired: _Shh, shut up Bucky, ‘m tryna sleep_

Bucky’s eyes flash open, and he’s staring up at the shadowed ceiling, watching a cobweb above the window sway idly. He blinks, tries to gasp in breath, but his chest is tight and constricted, and he tries to move, but he can’t. The lingering sensations of the dream still wash over him, but hollow and distant.

He can feel Steve beside him, feel Steve’s hand on his chest, hear him breathing rhythmically, reedy and shallow. On top of that, he can feel the arousal still burning through his body like liquid fire, and if he could move he would be jerking his hips until he would be pushing over the edge and coming, coming, coming. The bed is rocking just slightly, and out of the corner of his eye he can see vague movements from Steve’s shadow, and he knows his friend is grinding his own hips down into the mattress, seeking friction.

It is awkward. It is terrifying. Bucky still can’t move or make a sound.

Finally, finally, he manages to let out a low breath and, with effort, curl his neck up to look down at Steve. His heart starts thudding even harder in his chest at what he sees. Steve is all fangs and sharp, jagged horns – but that’s fine, Bucky is used to seeing his friend like that now. He’s wearing a loose white tank about four and a half sizes too big, and one of his membrane thin, bony wings has flopped out through the arm hole to lie over Bucky’s torso, where it tickles just slightly. His long tail, smooth and jet black, is peeking out of the legs of his shorts to curl around his own thigh as he sleeps. All of that is strange, Bucky has to admit, but familiar.

What is not familiar is the way Steve’s hand is pressed against his chest, bony fingers almost digging into Bucky’s skin, and Bucky can see his own veins, blue and cord-like, raised out of his own skin; which has gone so white-pale that it may as well be dead flesh.

'Steve—' he manages to gasp out, voice croaking, and Steve just growls low in his throat, fast mashed into the pillow as he sleeps on. 'Steve, ple-please – damn – wake up…’

'Wh-huh?' Steve finally mumbles, hips still rolling down against the bed and eyes blinking blearily open. He looks at Bucky with clear blue eyes that are foggy with sleep, his lashes hanging heavy and his tongue darting out past sharp fangs to lick his lips. He looks down at his hand.

Those blue eyes go from foggy to sharp and frightened in an instant, snapping open, and he lets out a startled noise of alarm. His wings snap into a tense position, raised up out of his shoulder-blades, and they twist the fabric of his tank so that it bunches strangely. ‘Bucky, what am I doing?!’ he asks frantically, staring in terror at his hand.

Bucky still can’t breathe more than shallow, difficult gasps of air. He still can’t move without intense concentrated effort. ‘St— stop it!’ he grits out, and Steve shakes his head.

'I don't know how!'

Bucky sucks in a ragged breath. ‘Take your hand— off my— chest—’

Shaking, Steve does: he rips his hand away from Bucky’s skin like it was glued there, like a tongue to ice metal. As the hand flies back, Bucky arches off the bed, pulling air into his lungs in one long heave. He pushes himself up, scrambles back so that his back is to the wall and stares at Steve in alarm. His dick is still hard as fucking anything, despite the terror, and curved up against his abdomen, probably poking out the waistband of his skivvies. Steve isn’t much better off, at least: his chest is splattered with uneven, splotchy flush, and his cheeks are spotted red. He’s panting.

'What the hell was that?' he asks, but Steve is just going even more wide eyed, distress painted on his features.

'I don't know,' he answers shakily. 'I— I don't— I'm so sorry, Bucky.'

'You were gonna kill me!'

'No, no, no I would never hurt you – anyone! – I wouldn’t, Buck, you gotta believe me!’

Well, that’s a damn lie. Steve would hurt any poor sap that got him riled enough if he could. But not like this, and not to death. Not on purpose.

Bucky lets out a trembling breath, still trying to shake the terror and the arousal out of his body, and doesn’t look at Steve, who is on his knees now, reaching out and imploring, but not moving closer, as if he’s scared to touch.

There is a sudden sharp rap on the door, and Sarah Rogers calls through the wall: ‘What are you boys doing in there?’

Steve jumps out of his skin, his tail lashing in distress. He looks guilty and embarrassed, like he got caught, well. At the other thing teenage boys get caught doing, other than nearly draining the life out of their best friend. ‘Nothing, ma!’ he calls back. He runs a hand through his hair, thumb running over the shape of his horn. ‘We’re okay!’

It’s a Saturday, so they don’t have to be at school, at least, but Mrs. Rogers still tells them through the door that they have to get up soon. ‘We’re going to the market,’ she calls, after a moment of suspicious hesitation. ‘James, dear, you mind helping carrying things home?’

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off Steve, who is still watching him wide eyed, shame painted on his demonic features. ‘Not a problem, ma’am,’ he calls back. ‘My folks won’t expect me home till dinner.’ His words ease Steve’s expression a little bit, who seems to relax at the knowledge that Bucky isn’t just going to up and run away from him over this. Mrs. Rogers calls back her thanks and he hears her quiet footsteps going into the kitchen and the kettle setting on to boil.

'Bucky…' Steve says quietly, after a moment.

'It's alright, pal,' Bucky replies, voice still trembling. ‘You didn’t mean to. We’re sleeping top to tail from now on though; I’m putting that line in the sand.’

'I don't know what… Nothing like that hasn’t ever happened before, Buck.' Steve scrubs a hand down his face, and seems to realize he's still looking like something out of a William Blake painting, quickly disguises himself back to human. The fangs, horns, wings, tail, all gone. Just a young, scrawny, horny kid again. Bucky can’t be mad.

'You're a vampire,' he says simply, shifting to the edge of the bed and slapping his friend on the back. Steve twitches a little.

'Ain't a vampire,' he objects.

'Course you are.' Bucky looks down at his dick, willing his boner away. They gotta go and have breakfast with Steve's ma any minute, and they're both still incapacitated like no one's business. 'You got fangs, you drain me to death while I sleep. What else would you be?'

Steve just shakes his head. ‘Vampires are dead, Buck. I ain’t dead. You see a coffin around here? And since when do vampires got wings?’

'I dunno, buddy. But I'm putting money on a sex vampire. You're a sex vampire.'

'That's not a thing.'

'Is.'

'Isn't.'

'Is.'

'Isn't.'

Steve isn’t a sex vampire, point of fact – but as guesses go, it’s not too far off.

*

The experience lingers with Bucky for a long while after that morning, like a persistent cold. He dreams about Steve again, and again, and again – and it’s the same as it was, but different. He dreams about doing all sorts of things to and with Steve, the sorta thing he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be mentioning in confession on Sundays when he goes, but never does. And they’re good dreams, they’re great dreams. They’re the kind of dreams that have him snapping awake and getting himself off fast and rough into his fist while trying to hold onto the sensations and images that are fast slipping away.

But they are just that. Dreams. They’re nothing like the consuming second reality that the first one had been and so they feel like a pale imitation, an echo. He aches so desperately to go back into whatever false world it was that Steve had conjured for just the two of them in his mind. He craves it. He finds himself sleeping earlier and longer in the hopes of catching it.

It can’t happen without Steve there with him. He realizes that quickly.

They’re wandering home from school one afternoon, through the streets of Brooklyn, when Bucky asks: ‘You wanna stay over tonight?’

It’s a dumb question, and Steve looks at him strangely. For one thing, it’s a school night, and there’s barely enough food or hot water in Bucky’s house to get him, his dad and his three sisters clean and up in the morning as it is, without adding in another mouth to feed and body to wash. Bucky’s place is always a mess of chaos anyway, as the three girls – all younger than him, on top of it all, and impossible to corral into order – screech and laugh and argue while Bucky’s dad, who is all military precision, nearly loses his damn mind and most of his hair trying to get them all off to school. Since their ma passed, Bucky’s taken over most of her role in that respect, and having Steve around will help little, if at all, since Steve tends to prefer to incite their wild rebellion as much as anything.

‘Uh, maybe not, Buck,’ he replies. ‘I should help ma with dinner.’

Bucky cocks an eyebrow. ‘It’s Thursday pal,’ he reminds him. ‘Your ma is on the night shift. Won’t be home till after you’re off to school tomorrow.’

But the way Steve winces at looks at the ground makes Bucky think that he hadn’t forgotten; he was just making up excuses.

‘Oh yeah,’ he lies smoothly, as if that had slipped his mind. ‘Uh, well, still. Don’t wanna get in the way.’

‘You won’t get in the way,’ Bucky assures him. ‘You can help Becca with her sums.’

‘You can do that, you’re better at them than me.’

‘Not while I’m tryin’ to wrangle Ruthie into the bath, I can’t,’ he argues. ‘C’mon pal, help me out.’

Steve sighs. ‘We ain’t sharing a bed though,’ he insists, looking at his shoes. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘That’s what you’re worried about?’ asks Bucky incredulously, even though he’d known it full well from the start. He waves it off, as if it’s not even an issue. ‘Bull. You’ll bunk with me, it’ll be fine.’

Narrowing his eyes, Steve glances at him. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘You’ll stay in my bed.’

‘Then you’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘Don’t be dumb, Steve, it’s fine, I’ll—‘

Steve lets out a sharp noise of frustration. ‘God’s sake, do you want that to happen again?!’ he snaps.

Well that’s a loaded question. Bucky coughs, and buries his hands deep in his pockets. Looks at a dress in the shop window they’re passing a bit too intently.

‘Maybe,’ he mutters, after a pause.

Steve just stares at him, wide eyed and appalled. But he comes home with him anyway.

*

They don’t talk about it again until they’re shutting themselves in Bucky’s bedroom that night. The youngest two girls have been washed and put to bed with minimal damage (Steve managed not to start a riot this evening, instead staying pretty subdued and just assisting Bucky with getting them into their pajamas and putting their hair into braids with Rebecca’s help, all while the girls complained about how boring he was being today), and Becca is staying up with their dad for a while longer, listening to the radio.

Bucky has dragged the couch cushions into the bedroom, but he has little intention of letting Steve sleep on them.

‘I don’t wanna hurt you again Buck,’ Steve just says quietly, sitting cross legged on the end of the bed, while Bucky digs around in his dresser for something he can wear to sleep in.

‘You didn’t hurt me last time,’ Bucky replies. It’s a half truth. He hadn’t been able to move or breathe, and he could feel the life draining slowly and seductively out of him. That wasn’t the same as hurting him. ‘Besides, I don’t want that bit. I just… I liked the dream part, didn’t you?’

Biting his lip, Steve nods. ‘Yeah, but. I was asleep. I don’t know how to control it. I don’t know if I _can_ control it, Buck.’

‘Well, we’ll just give it a go, hey? Trial and error.’

‘Why’d you wanna dream about me like that anyway?’

Bucky just flushes and lies smoothly. ‘It doesn’t have to be about you though, does it? That dream, pal. That was like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Can’t you give it a shot at doing it with, I dunno. Jean Harlow or someone?’

‘I ain’t a running blue movie, Barnes.’

‘You kinda could be, though,’ Bucky points out.

Groaning, Steve just shrugs. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he says, and when Bucky grins, Steve grins back. Because, the fact of the matter is, they’re two horny teenagers, and, like every horny teenager who’s come before them, they’ll get their kicks however the hell they can.

*

It takes Bucky a long time to get to sleep. Steve stares at him from the other side of the bed, both hands buried under the pillow as if that’ll stop him reaching out for him when things get going. He’s shirtless, and his wings are curled tightly around his ribcage almost like a second skin.

‘I can’t try this till you get to sleep, Buck,’ he reminds him, rolling his eyes. Bucky has always liked the way Steve looks when his teeth are sharp and pointed, but he’s still just sighing and smirking and laughing like normal – all easy, natural gestures on what should be a terrifying face. Bucky is fond.

‘I’m tryin’,’ he mumbles back, closing his eyes again, but he’s all apprehension and excitement. And a touch of fear, yeah. He’s not scared of Steve (could never be scared of Steve) but he knows this could be a really, really dumb idea.

But then, they’ve had worse ones. Maybe.

*

‘That… did not go so well,’ Bucky comments the next morning, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and glancing at Steve, who is still lying down with his hands over his face. He’s bright red and shaking with silent laughter.

‘I’m so sorry, Bucky,’ he manages to get out between embarrassed snickering. ‘I swear I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

Bucky just shrugs, adjusting his uncomfortably sticky skivvies. At least, at least, the dream had been as consuming, real and seductive as he remembered the last time being. At least that was holding true. ‘Well, it looks like it only does work with dreams about you then, buddy.’

‘Uh huh,’ Steve gasps out. He peeks at Bucky between his fingers, just a sliver of grinning fangs, blushing cheeks and sharp horns. His tail is lashing back and forward like it does when he’s particularly amused, thumping against the mattress. ‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing to apologize for, Stevie,’ Bucky replies honestly. ‘I could’a stayed in that dream forever.’

The images and sensations are still fading from his mind and body, leaving him lingeringly desirous and wanting. Aching for Steve, in a blonde fucking wig and silver satin dress, lips painted red as cherries and eyes rimmed in dark charcoal, pulling him in for sweet kisses that smear paint all over Bucky’s mouth and neck.

Bucky can’t help but think Steve makes a great goddamn Jean Harlow. But he ain’t gonna say that out loud.


	4. June 1932

Bucky doesn’t get sick very often. He has the constitution of a horse, Steve’s mother likes to tell him – but that might be in comparison to Steve, who has the constitution of a feeble budgerigar. Bucky suspects that constant exposure to Steve’s various flues and illnesses have probably just built him up a particularly strong immune system.

Which is good, of course. Well, Bucky would happily take the bullet of getting sick now and again if it meant that Steve could be in generally better health, but that’s neither here nor there.

The thing is, though, is that Steve is a tough son-of-a-bitch when he comes down with something, and often manages to get away with pretending that nothing is wrong at all for far longer than he should be able to. Bucky remembers one time in particular when he had gotten ill with particularly bad glandular fever, including an insanely high temperature, vomiting, near inability to speak through the sandpaper of his throat, and such severe fatigue that he was swaying on his feet whenever no one was looking at him. And yet still, he had managed to hide it completely for a full three days before Bucky had caught him puking into a sink at school. And even then he had insisted that didn’t need to stay in bed and could carry on as normal because, and I quote: ‘I’m not going to be kissing anybody, Buck. Stop fussing, Christ.’

Bucky, on the other hand, gets a slight cold or a headache and becomes convinced he’s dying. He’s not proud of the fact. It’s just, yeah, he doesn’t get sick very much at all, and he sees Steve barely putting one foot in front of the other sometimes, and it can be hard not to get into the habit of assuming the worst. Even though he knows he’s gonna be just fine, he complains. He ain’t proud of that either. He tries not to, tries to suck it up and push through like Steve does, but it’s just that…

'Come on, Buck. Get up,' Steve says, kneeling down next to the sofa. His arms are folded on the cushions, and he's looking into Bucky's pale face imploringly. 'How 'bout we go catch a movie?'

'Ugggghhhhhh,' Bucky replies, and rubs his eye socket with his knuckle. Everything hurts. His head is pounding, and he can't look at light. 'God no.'

Steve, on the other hand, is all energy today. Bucky suspects he knows why, but his friend isn’t entertaining the suggestion, not just yet. He’s going on and freaking on about how Bucky is just tired, you’re just tired Buck, come on, just get off your ass and get outside, you’ll feel heaps better. It’s killing him. It feels like there’s a balloon expanding in his head, slowly pushing his temples apart and pressing up behind his eyes, blocking his throat and nose and stopping air from getting in how it should. It’s not a cold, Bucky knows this. It’s not a hangover, either. It’s not a fever, or a virus, or food poisoning.

It’s Steve.

Because here is the thing, Bucky has felt like this before. Not so badly, mind. Last time it had been mild enough to chalk up to an interrupted night’s sleep. But this time it’s bad enough that he would just rather not move, not ever again, and it’s like Steve has drained all his energy for himself, and that’s because he has. There’s no doubt about it, in Bucky’s mind. He’s sucked away all Bucky’s good health like the little sex vampire that he is, and this time he’s drained him nearly bone dry and hopped himself up with good cheer and platitudes.

Ugh, Steve. Please just, shh. Shh. Everything hurts.

He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet now, making the couch jerk and shift under Bucky, and it’s like the rocking of a boat in a storm. Uggghhhh. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.

'Please quit that,' he groans weakly. He would probably be annoyed at Steve right now if it weren't for the fact that he knows his friend is only pushing him to get up and about because he's feeling guilty and worried. They hadn't meant for it to happen. It had been an accident. It's just that, you know, it's one of those lazy, warm afternoons in early summer, and they'd already spent all morning out in the sun, so by the time they got back to Steve's place they had been happy to just head into his bedroom and play cards on the bed.

Only, before they’d known it, the cards had ended up strewn messily across the blankets, and both of them had simply conked out, dozy and exhausted and warm. And the next thing Bucky knew, he was staring down at Steve in rapt, trembling awe as his red lips closed around the head of Bucky’s dick. No sharp little fangs, thank god, but Steve wasn’t entirely human either. Bucky had reached down to run his hands through his hair as Steve slowly took more and more of him inside his mouth, and his fingers stroked over horns like carved bone. Steve’s wings cast shadows on the messy blankets under the two of them, and the day was still so sticky and hot that when Steve pulled off and blew cool air onto Bucky’s slick erection, grinning, a tremor of chilled relief shivered down his spine and melted him into the bed below.

Everything was stark, each sensation clear and real and perfect, and Bucky’s fingers were probably gripping a bit too tight into Steve’s hair, because he knew it was a dream, but he didn’t want to wake up.

'I don't want to wake up,' he told Steve, who pulled back from the slow licks he was dragging up the underside of Bucky's dick, and replied: 'You don't have to.'

And that was when Bucky tried to get in air, and couldn’t. But he kept sleeping, gripping tight onto Steve’s hair, and the dream, and the feeling of release that was fast approaching – until Steve was on his knees over him, shaking him awake and half-shouting his name, panic in his voice.

'Bucky! Bucky, Bucky you gotta wake up!’

Then they had gone through all this bother when Bucky had eventually come to, a slender hand-print still marked into his throat from where Steve had been unconsciously pulling the life out of him, and had stayed trapped half in the dream just long enough to try and pull his friend into a deep, sharp kiss. Then it had been awkward; then Steve had tried not to cry but had a little bit anyway since he’d thought he had killed Bucky for a while there; and then Bucky had tried to comfort him and assure him that he was fine.

And now he’s feeling anything but fine, and Steve is full of stolen energy and is nagging him to get up off the couch because he just wants Bucky to be okay.

'Buck, you always get like this when you get a bit sick,' he says dismissively. 'You're fine, stop being dramatic.'

Lifting his head up a little bit off the sofa, Bucky just narrows his eyes and glares at Steve. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling fine,’ he replies dryly.

'I feel great!'

'I know.’

Steve scrunches up his face. His cheeks are flushed with healthy glow for about the only time ever, and his eyes are bright and sparkling. Even his skinny body isn’t really looking frail, if that’s possible. He just looks skinny. ‘Buck,’ he sighs. ‘I really don’t think…’

'Yeah, you do,' Bucky replies and buries his face back in the cushion again. Ow. Every time he moves his head he thinks he can feel his brain wobbling in his skull.

Steve just frowns. ‘You’re okay though, right?’

'No, I'm dying.'

'You always say that.'

Bucky huffs. ‘Shut it.’

'Are you sore at me?' Steve asks, his voice low and a little hesitant. God, way to guilt a guy, Stevie. Who's the freaking demon here?

'No,' he replies, and swallows thickly around the choked off feeling in his throat. 'You didn't mean to. I ain't mad.' He is, though, just a little. Not so much about the dream, that can't be helped – and besides, it was damn good. But Steve has this bad habit of not owning up to his messes, and it grates, sometimes. Especially when everything is grating, because the world is sharp and ugly and sore and not as good as the dreams.

Bucky groans and Steve opens his mouth again – but turns around before he gets words out, glancing over his shoulder. The front door creaks open and Bucky lifts his head up just as Mrs. Rogers comes into the room, arms full of groceries.

'Oh, James dear,' she says as she catches sight of him on the sofa. 'I just ran into your mother down the street, she wants you to come help with—'

Sarah pauses in her step, cuts herself off, and frowns. She looks at Steve, and beckons him over with one finger, shopping in her arms. Her voice drops low as she talks to her son, but everything seems loud to Bucky’s ringing ears, and he catches every word.

'What have you two been doing?' she asks, sounding just a little bit alarmed. Bucky thinks it's maybe an overreaction. Come on. He just looks tired and sick, he's not about to drop dead. He hopes not, anyway.

'Nothin', ma,' Steve answers, just as quiet. He's got his too-innocent lying voice on, and Bucky groans into the cushion. Sarah can see it through better than anyone. ‘Bucky just got sick is all.’

She looks over at him with a shrewd eye and makes a tsk-ing sound. ‘What’s wrong with you then, dear?’

Bucky lifts his head up off the couch and tries to smile at her. It’s more of a grimace; the room is swimming and he has to squint to focus properly. ‘Headache.’

'You're white as a sheet,' she tells him, and puts the groceries down on the bench. 'Unpack those, sweet-heart, I'll take James' temperature.'

Biting his lip, Steve glances over guiltily at Bucky as he reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a tin of baked beans. Bucky can tell they’re thinking the same thing. Sarah knows full well that Steve is different. That’s the word she always uses. Different. He’s a bit different, she’ll say, but he’s a good kid and my son. The way she’s eying Bucky as she goes into the bathroom to get the thermometer, it’s obvious she knows he ain’t just got your run of the mill cold.

Turns out, he’s got a fever like a egg on a hot stone. Mrs. Rogers straightens her skirt and stands up, calling Steve over again. He’s in the middle of putting potatoes under the sink, but he glances over at his name, and shuffles out of the kitchen, tail between his legs. Possibly literally.

'I'm going to ask you again,' she says to her son, stern like only a nurse can be. 'What were you two doing?'

Steve’s eyes shoot to meet Bucky’s, but he looks away quickly. ‘We fell asleep,’ he admits.

‘Mm hmm?’

Letting out a heavy breath, Bucky blinks up at Steve’s mom. ‘It wasn’t his fault, ma’am,’ he says thickly. ‘We both… I know not to sleep next to him, usually.’

'And how do you know that?' Sarah asks. Neither Bucky nor Steve can find it in them to answer. The tone of her voice is sharp, but there's something shaking under it, and Bucky can tell she's more worried than angry. 'Steve?'

'I don't know how to stop it…' Steve mutters under his breath, looking at his feet. He is still basically humming with energy; Bucky can see it sparking under his skin, and he can see Sarah looking at her son closely. The flush in his cheeks, the spark in his guilty eyes.

After a moment, she sighs. ‘No, I suppose you can’t,’ she says, and crouches down next to the sofa to sweep the hair off Bucky’s feverish forehead. ‘Don’t worry dear,’ she tells him. ‘I had it a lot worse than this here and there. You’ll be alright by tomorrow.’

He looks at her, brow furrowed in question, and she smiles. Steve and Sarah share a smile; it’s just a slow curl up of the lips, sly and ironic. ‘Steve’s father wasn’t always the best fella,’ she says plainly. ‘It wasn’t an accident with him.’

'Ma…' Steve says quietly and suddenly Bucky feels like he's intruding. He would get up and leave if the room would just stop spinning, probably. Mrs. Rogers doesn't talk about Steve's father, and if he ever asks, it's always; _when you’re older, when you’re older._ This is the most she’s said about him, ever.

Maybe Steve is older now.

'Get James some water, would you, sweet-heart?' she asks Steve, who's still on his feet, glancing down between her and Bucky and scratching his neck. Through bleary eyes, Bucky thinks he can see the shadow of Steve's tail faintly on the far wall, lashing back and forth in agitation; but he might be imagining it. 'Once he's feeling a bit better I reckon we have a little bit to talk about, don't you boys?'


	5. 1933

When he gets this bad they can’t have the doctor round, which is the worst thing of all. Steve trembles and shakes like a bough in a storm, and he’s puked his guts up so much that he’s getting out nothing aside from acrid sludge, watery and tinged black, as if he’s been eating charcoal. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and his usually expressive wings are just lying limply on the mattress (except for when they twitch involuntarily, the same as the rest of the muscles in his body), which has been stripped bare. 

Bucky is sitting at his bedside while Sarah washes the sheets. It’s all they can do. Keep him warm, keep him rested, and try to feed him. He is burning so hot that Bucky can feel it and the rash that dapples his face and torso looks like the rough sketch of a cartographer’s map; outlining the shores and mountains of a fever he just can’t shake. 

Every breath seems to be a struggle for Steve, shuddered in through gritted, uneven fangs. Earlier today he had coughed for ten minutes through an attempt to tell Bucky some bullshit about not wanting to die yet. Bucky had told him off for it, sharp and angry, and Steve had tried to argue back – but had just closed his eyes and given up fighting after Bucky had told him to shut the hell up, which is probably testament to how sick he really, truly is. 

‘S’ cold,’ Steve rasps out now. He’s so hot that the air is probably cooking around him, but he still wraps his arms around his bony frame and shivers. His tail is curled up tight around his thigh, digging in deep enough to leave marks. 

‘You puked up on your blankets again,’ Bucky reminds him, but with a sigh he climbs up onto the bed and wraps his arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders. It’s probably not good to go touching him when he’s this sick, but if Bucky was gonna catch anything it would have been a week ago when this was strep throat. ‘Do you want another sweater?’ 

Steve shakes his head. ‘Too hot,’ he says, and Bucky smiles tightly, pulling him closer. They’re both propped up on the enormous pile of lumpy pillows and couch cushions now, because when sitting up Steve’s breathing may not be even, exactly, but it’s not quite so laboured as when he’s lying down. 

His wings jerk as Bucky shuffles in closer, shifting so that he’s not lying on them. They move with a listless quality that Bucky doesn’t like, as though they can’t even lift their own paper thin weight. 

‘Can I touch?’ Bucky asks, reaching out his hand to hover over the shadow-like membrane of the wing. Steve twists his head to glance at him, and coughs into his sleeve. 

‘Why?’ he asks, voice raspy, and coughs again immediately. 

Bucky doesn’t quite know the answer to that. It’s not like he’s not been seeing them plenty a good chunk of his life now, and it’s not even quite like he’s never touched them before. He’s brushed against them when they’ve been sharing a bed, or bumped them here and there. But it’s never seemed right to properly investigate them, like he’d be doing something either too personal or something ungodly. Not that he’s quite the good Catholic boy he was raised to be, but he still goes to church here and there, and there’s something faithful that niggles inside him and makes him cautious, sometimes. Not cautious enough, arguably. 

‘I think your rash has spread to them,’ he just says, which is true. The charcoal-gray skin of the wings is mottled with little raised lines and patches where they are pale and washed out, almost transparent. 

‘You can touch anywhere,’ Steve just mumbles, dropping his head down to Bucky’s shoulder. ‘You know that.’ 

Bucky traces his wings over the brittle bones and delicate membrane hesitantly, and watches Steve’s face as his eyes drop closed and he begins to drift off again. He isn’t staying awake long at the moment, not at all. Parts of Steve’s wings feel like old paper, a little torn at the edges. Other parts feel like thin, dry leather. 

At some point, Bucky kisses his friend’s temple, and Steve lets out a soft sound in his throat that stumbles over a ragged breath. 

‘James, honey, you can’t fall asleep there,’ Sarah tells him when she comes back into the room, arms laden with cleaner sheets and her mouth drawn tight in a frown. 

It’s true, Bucky is drifting off. He blinks his eyes open. ‘I ain’t gonna catch anything,’ he tells her groggily, but she just drops the linen on the end of the bed and shakes her head. 

‘No, not that,’ she says. ‘It’s not safe.’ 

‘Oh,’ Bucky says, and Steve makes a quiet noise of objection as he untangles them and climbs up off the bed. 

Sarah starts to unfold the sheets. ‘Put the kettle on, would you,’ she says to him. 

In the kitchen, Bucky leans against the counter and listens to the low whistle of the teapot and gnaws at his lips until they’re sore and bitten red. He’s gotta look out for Steve, doesn’t he? He’s gotta.

*

After Sarah has gone to bed (which she does regretfully, only with Bucky promising that he’ll stay in the room to keep an eye on Steve, and get her if anything changes), Bucky strips down to his skivvies and climbs in under the fresh sheets with his friend, hushing him when he stirs. 

‘It’s alright Stevie,’ he murmurs. ‘You don’t gotta wake up.’ 

Steve maybe nods, maybe twitches, and Bucky wraps himself cautiously around him, sliding down the bed so that he can bury his head in the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve sighs.

Lying with him is like lying with a hot water duct. Within moments, Bucky is sweating and overheated, and Steve’s clammy skin is sticking to his own. Steve’s breaths are uneven and rattling, and it’s enough that Bucky struggles to get to sleep himself, distracted by the urge to continuously listen for the next one Steve takes. After a while, Bucky feels something tickling near his thigh, and slowly Steve’s tail coils up and loops over his waist, holding him close. 

Bucky forces himself to keep his eyes closed and drifts slowly, feverishly, off to sleep.

*

The dream is like none he’s ever had before. It’s not too different from reality, in honesty, only he can’t tell if it is day or night, and the room seems to contain nothing but the sweat soaked bed, and the door is absent. Steve is still pressed up hot all around him, shivering and flushed and dappled with rash and fever. Ridiculously, Bucky’s prick his full and insistent in his shorts, and his whole body seems to be rolling with distant, almost nauseous desire. 

Steve maybe isn’t up to it. 

‘Buck, what’re you doing?’ he mumbles, keeping his eyes closed. Bucky can’t actually remember, but he knows he’s _meant_ to be here, knows he _wants_ to be here. Knows that Steve needs him. 

‘I need you,’ is what he manages to say, and it’s a constant truth that tugs inside him. 

Steve coughs, nearly retches. But he feels – and Bucky knows it sounds weird – but he feels bigger, somehow, like he’s carrying something else inside him that is more immense than his frail body. Maybe that thing is dying too. Maybe that thing is _meant_ to be dead, but Bucky can’t bear the thought of ever losing it, so he just presses himself tighter to Steve and presses kisses over his rash-mottled skin. 

‘ _Please_?’ 

‘Dammit,’ Steve croaks out between coughs. But he concedes, and then he is touching Bucky. He is kissing weakly into him and the kisses are like pinpricks into his lips, his tongue, drawing blood. It’s not consuming like it usually feels. It feels like a tea-candle flame inside of him that is flickering in the breeze. 

*

When he wakes up, Steve is gripping him on the curve of his shoulder, pulling something from Bucky that feels like it is being ripped away, consumed by the shadow inside of Steve that is large and so, so real. 

He waits as long as he can bear to. He waits until his head is spinning and his breathing feels like ice in his throat, before he gasps for Steve to wake up. 

He can’t move from the bed for a long while, shivering and shaking and gasping in ragged breaths of his own. Steve, on the other hand, is on his feet in moments, raising his voice to shout at Bucky, anger sparking like a force in the room. His wings are raised on his shoulder blades, spread out sharp and strong. His tail is whipping back and forth, and his eyes are wide and panicked. 

The rash is gone, and Steve’s voice is barely hoarse at all. Bucky manages a smile, but doesn’t manage to push himself off the bed until after Sarah has heard Steve’s shouting, rushed into the room, and given Bucky an earful of her own. Then she makes them all tea and eggs, and eventually Bucky manages to sit up, blowing on the mug held in his trembling hands, and smiles weakly at Steve, who’s still glowering and pointedly not talking to him. 

‘You do feel better though, don’t’cha?’ he asks. 

‘You could have died,’ Steve snaps.

But Bucky just replies, ‘I didn’t though,’ and that gets a smile out of him. Just a small, reluctant curl of the lips, but the same words have come out of Steve’s mouth more times than Buck can count on his fingers and toes. So they’re good. 

‘I would’ve been fine,’ Steve insists. He meets Bucky’s eyes for just a moment before looking away and crossing his arms, still insisting on being cross. Bucky drinks his tea slowly with a weak smile. 


End file.
